


Woven from Air

by forthegreatergood



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 15:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: After Crowley's reaction to the frills and the silks, Aziraphale has an idea of his own.“You--” Crowley closed his mouth and swallowed. “You.”Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to be proud of how well his gambit had succeeded or concerned that he’d broken the poor serpent.  He’d been hoping for something closer to delight than panic, but then perhaps he had overdone it a bit. “Articulate as always, dear.”“You cannot possibly expect me to be articulate in the face ofthis, angel,” Crowley said, shaking his head.





	Woven from Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lace and Gold Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807927) by [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni). 

> All characters property of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and the respective production and licensing companies.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Inspired by [Elsajeni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni)'s unbelievably lovely [Lace and Gold Braid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807927)!

Aziraphale ran his fingers over the embroidered silk of his old coat and smiled to himself. Two buttons were loose, and the seam along one shoulder had been stressed a bit, and it was nothing at all to mend them again. He thought of Crowley, his clever fingers so captivatingly careful with those buttons, those little stays and ties and garters, and a flash of warmth stole through him.

The gentleness with which Crowley had undone his clothes had been all for nothing when Aziraphale had insisted on not shedding them entirely when things reached their inevitable conclusion. Crowley had been so patient, so infuriatingly _slow_, that Aziraphale might have been forgiven for chalking it all up to a desire to tease or draw things out. But then there was the intensity of Crowley’s gaze, the heat rolling off his skin, the reverence with which his lips brushed across what his hands had laid bare.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to do this, angel,” Crowley had murmured, his voice barely audible through the lace of the cravat. “How long I’ve waited for the _chance_ to do this.”

Aziraphale had shuddered at that, such a delicious ache tightening his frame, every ounce of longing he’d suffered over centuries past rekindled by Crowley’s words. Every time he’d wanted to strip Crowley bare and hold him close, every time he’d wanted Crowley to keep going when the demon’s hands found Aziraphale’s lapels, every time Aziraphale had gone still and hoped when Crowley’s attention focused on him in that ludicrously intimate, knowing way for no apparent reason…

It was torturous, thinking that he could have had this all along.

_I’ve wanted _you_ for so long_\--that one had been whispered against the soft skin of Aziraphale’s thigh.

_How the thought of this has haunted me_, whispered against the inside of his knee, just above his stocking, the garter loose in Crowley’s hand.

Crowley hadn’t wanted to stop until everything was properly off, but there had been something to it that Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to give up quite yet. It had felt like the end of a masquerade, when the sun rose and the music stopped and the masks had to be put away, and Aziraphale could only think of delaying it as long as possible. He hadn’t wanted to be naked, to fall back onto his bed and pull Crowley along after him, to be this here and now version of themselves--not quite yet. Not when he could pull Crowley against him, clever hands sliding under his shirt and down his breeches, and feel as if they really had done this two hundred years ago when they’d been bolder and more dashing and didn’t know what each other’s deaths would look like.

Crowley was impatient, insistent, and rough--_hungry_\--when it came to the bow tie and the waistcoat and everything else in his way now, whenever Aziraphale smirked and raised his eyebrows and leaned back a little in invitation. Not quite come-hither, but more than enough to put Crowley right where Aziraphale wanted him, pressing against him and mouthing at his throat and whispering the most bruisingly sincere blandishments in his ear. 

And it was wonderful when those plucking, persistent hands went soft and giving against his bare skin, when the smallest nod or sigh or pleased hum could direct Crowley as easily as a word, when Aziraphale could wrap his arms around the demon and drink as deep and long as he wanted--it _was_. Aziraphale had never imagined himself so desperately happy, in all those long and lonely years when he’d imagined what it might be like to love Crowley.

But Crowley had gone wide-eyed and breathless at the satins and the brocades, and his fingers had trembled when he’d undone the buttons and the bindings, and the way he’d said _I need you_ had echoed back across all the centuries they’d spent biting their tongues, as if Crowley had found yet another way to bend time to his will. It had felt like something close to worship, and like Crowley’s hands were smoothing away the tarnish of these past few decades, and like the heat of Crowley’s lips could rekindle everything the few days after Warlock’s birthday party had tried to extinguish.

Aziraphale had wanted to melt with it, and he’d wanted to weep with it, and most of all, he hadn’t wanted to let go of it until they were well and fully sated. And so Crowley had, for once, not quite gotten his way, and at the end of it Aziraphale had remembered what Heaven had been like, before God had stopped answering them, and Crowley had been purring and languid in his arms, and the coat had needed a bit of mending.

Aziraphale stroked his fingers along the cloth, everything coming back together again as if nothing had happened in the first place. He tucked it away in the wardrobe, almost reluctant to let go of it again, but there were books to reshelve and customers to--eventually--allow onto the premises, if they were patient enough to wait the fifteen minutes past what the hours sign said that Aziraphale intended to actually open. 

He adjusted the linen shirt on its hanger, and his eye fell on a bolt of cloth tucked into the corner. Aziraphale’s lips pursed, and his hand reached out almost of its own accord, fingertips brushing the edge of the muslin.

He’d forgotten all about it, hadn’t he? He’d been in Ravenna, and it would be over a millennium before anyone would think of going around killing people simply for dressing well or being of noble birth, never mind base a whole governing body on it, and there’d been no sulky, frustrated demon around to mock the attention an angel paid to human fashions. Aziraphale had been dressed to the nines, and a merchant had narrowed her eyes at him and waved him over and shown him the cloth. Straight from Dhaka itself, she’d said, and he’d believed it.

Aziraphale slipped his hand under the cloth; even in the dim light of the interior of a wardrobe in his cramped bedroom, the gauzy muslin was almost completely sheer. What had the old name for it been? Woven air? It was hard to remember now what had been the truth and what had been the merchant’s cheerful embellishments--it certainly hadn’t been woven from the first sunlight of dawn by a flock of virgins, but it was somehow an easy claim to credit as the cloth flowed over his fingers like water.

If spiders could be taught to weave, Aziraphale thought, they’d still eat their hearts with jealousy over the muslin in his hands. The vapors of dawn, indeed.

He remembered the way it had looked in the sun, glossy as an onion’s skin and just as light. He’d had no idea what to do with it, but still, he’d wanted it. The merchant had asked a fortune for the bolt, and he’d paid it gladly, almost giddy with how fine it was. He’d wanted it, and he never had figured out what to do with it, and yet he’d never been able to part with it.

Aziraphale smiled fondly and thought of all the things he might have tried making of it, if he’d been able to indulge Crowley’s weakness for undressing him on those warm spring nights with the smell of lavender drifting in through the windows and the candles guttering on the bedside tables. 

A veil? A shawl? A robe, almost invisible until Crowley reached for him and found that thin layer of cloth between them? All of it, layers upon layers, the demon kept in that state of reckless tenderness for hours, every careful removal bringing him only a hair’s breadth closer to what he wanted even as it was never so very far away?

An idea--a wish--germinated in Aziraphale’s breast, finally bursting from the shell where it had lain dormant since Byzantium had come to power. Aziraphale clutched the bolt of muslin to his chest and smiled, already imagining Crowley’s reaction.

He was downstairs and picking up the phone before he could think better of it, or make any sort of plan, or talk himself out of it.

***

Aziraphale admired his handiwork in the mirror, turning one way, then the other, to watch as the muslin caught the light and shifted against itself. It was scandalously revealing, for all that he was technically covered from throat to ankle, and by at least three layers at that. He’d never worn anything like it. He’d never had a reason to.

His hand drifted over his belly to his hip and then down his thigh. The muslin was gloriously silken, cool against his skin but wonderfully conducive to the heat of his palm when it came to a rest on his body. Crowley would…

Aziraphale flushed. Crowley _would_ like it, he was sure of it.

He snapped his fingers, and the bedroom was decked in roses. Crowley would see him, and that slow, disbelieving smile would spread across his face, and then he’d remember himself and try to play it cool.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now?” Crowley would say, and tilt his head as if he were tallying the merits against the drawbacks. But his eyes would be dark and glittering, and he would reach for Aziraphale with careful, trembling hands, and he would be too slow to let go of anything he touched.

Aziraphale could feel his flush deepen, and his own eyes went wide as the muslin shifted over evidence of his arousal, and oh, he hadn’t considered _that_, had he? Silk was one thing, but that gossamer flutter, that weightless constriction, was quite another. He could get far too carried away with this all by himself, and then what would Crowley do?

Laugh at him and tease him and torture him by going so very slowly with everything, taking such great care with every touch--

Aziraphale squirmed against the muslin and scoffed at himself. At this rate it would be over and done with before Crowley even turned up, and where _was_ that blessed demon?

He willed his corporation back in order--chaste and quiescent and waiting instead of pricking at him with insistent bursts of lust--and bit his lip, wondering if he should try calling to hurry Crowley along. He hadn’t specified a time, it was true, but then asking Crowley if he might want to come over for dinner or a glass of wine generally saw Crowley walking into the shop within the hour, some little delicacy tucked under one arm and a bottle of something interesting in his other hand.

Aziraphale had almost decided to give in and go back downstairs when he heard the front door bang open.

“Hey, angel, ’ve you tried cronuts yet?” Crowley called, his voice carrying up the stairs. Aziraphale leaned on the doorjamb at the top of the flight, lips pressed to his knuckles to hide a smile in spite of the fact that Crowley was nowhere near being able to see it. How the stomping, bellowing, disruptive creature downstairs could transform into such an adoringly cautious one the moment Aziraphale said “yes” was a mystery for the ages. “Where’ve you got to, then?”

“Up here,” Aziraphale called back, retreating from the doorway. He wanted Crowley to see him among the roses first. He wanted to have a clear view of Crowley’s face, when Crowley first saw him.

“Well, come down and have a cronut.” There was the sound of a cupboard being flung open and Crowley rummaging around in the dishes, and Aziraphale kneaded his temples. Stomping, bellowing, _oblivious_ creature. “The shopgirl swore you’d love ’em. I asked what sort of wine went best with it, and she scrunched up her face like I’d just asked her to explain Spinoza’s take on causality, so I grabbed a good rye instead. That’s all right, yeah?”

“Or you could, perhaps, come upstairs?” Aziraphale asked, raising his voice to be heard over the havoc Crowley was wreaking on his china.

The next moment, Crowley was bounding up the steps, a smug grin on his face. “What’s the rush, angel? Can’t wait a--”

He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw Aziraphale, blinking dumbly and cocking his head like the universe had stopped making what little sense it normally did.

“Wh--” Crowley straightened up, making a noise like he’d been punched unexpectedly but not very hard, and his fingers twitched against his jacket where his hands had fallen to his sides. “You. Uh.”

He took a tentative step to one side, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale, and exhaled slowly.

“You--” Crowley closed his mouth and swallowed. “_You._”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to be proud of how well the gambit had succeeded or concerned that he’d broken the poor serpent. He’d been hoping for something closer to delight than panic, but then perhaps he had overdone it a bit. “Articulate as always, dear.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to be articulate in the face of _this_, angel,” Crowley said, shaking his head. 

He took a few steps closer, his gaze suddenly everywhere, tracing the curve of Aziraphale’s throat and the angle of his wrist and the arch of his instep and the look in his eye. Crowley glanced at Aziraphale’s hands, then back to his face, and a faint blush bloomed on his cheeks.

“Rather warm in here, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked. He reached up to rest his hand on the topmost tie of the robe he’d layered over everything else. “You could give me a hand with this, couldn’t you?”

Crowley made a strangled noise and crossed the room, careful, wary, such a far cry from the confidence with which he’d swaggered in that Aziraphale almost wanted to laugh. He hadn’t expected Crowley to be quite so poleaxed, not with all those fervent, heart-quickening confessions he’d spent their last tryst sighing against Aziraphale’s neck.

Crowley stopped in front of him, hands rising to Aziraphale’s arms, tracing them without daring to touch, transfixed by the diaphanous layers just barely concealing Aziraphale’s skin. He finally settled on the loosely-tied bow in Aziraphale’s fingers, cupping his hands over Aziraphale’s, fingertips brushing the sheer cuffs of his sleeves.

“Fucking hell, angel,” Crowley whispered, and Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. 

Aziraphale smiled, Crowley’s hands light and warm on his, and Crowley looked down and away. 

“Gave myself away a bit with the Paris get-up, didn’t I?” he muttered. He let go and took a step back, one hand reaching for glasses that weren’t there, and Aziraphale’s lips pursed. He certainly hadn’t meant to upset Crowley. 

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s…” Crowley gestured wordlessly, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I just feel about as transparent, is all. I didn’t mean...”

“Is that such a terrible thing, love?” Aziraphale asked gently. “Here? Now? With me?”

Crowley’s eyes met his, and Crowley’s flush deepened. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale sighed, tugging at the ends of the bow. “I suppose you’ll have to tell me.”

He dropped his hands to the next tie, and Crowley’s breath hitched. He tugged at the bow, letting the tie slide through his fingers, and Crowley sounded like he was choking.

“Are you sure you won’t…?” Aziraphale looked down at the bow, then up at Crowley through his lashes, and Crowley glared at him, his cheeks burning.

“Absolutely merciless, and you’ve got the nerve to ask me if it’s such a terrible thing.” He drew closer, though, and he raised shaking fingers to the front of Aziraphale’s robe, and the hands that closed around Aziraphale’s were soft and tender. He teased the bow apart, slowly and carefully, his eyes focused on the cloth instead of Aziraphale’s face. “Do you really?”

“Do I really what?” Aziraphale breathed, as Crowley’s fingers found the next bow. Crowley’s eyes were so dark, and he was so close, and it was difficult, not to let his desire bleed through his entire corporation. _Wait, wait, just _wait_\--only a bit longer, and then…_

“Love me.”

Aziraphale stared at him, and he couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped his lips. Crowley’s head snapped up, his eyes wide, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in his hands.

“My dear, I have loved you since, at the very latest, that second time in Prague.”

Crowley’s brows furrowed. “Four hundred years.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“_Four hundred years_.”

“Yes.”

Crowley groaned and let his forehead rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the heat of his skin wicked through the muslin a few moments later. A few moments after that, Crowley nuzzled at his throat, and Aziraphale shivered against him.

“’s not fair,” Crowley mumbled, and the barest hint of his breath made it through the cloth. “I can’t even be properly mad at you, when you’re kitted out like this.”

His fingers crooked, and Aziraphale felt the tie give. Crowley parted the robe slowly, easily, and his hands slid over the muslin covering Aziraphale’s hips.

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait until you’ve taken it all off me,” Aziraphale pointed out mildly, and Crowley’s hands tightened for a moment.

“Beautiful bastard,” Crowley said, lifting his head to suck at the skin just above Aziraphale’s collar. “You know I can’t hold a grudge that long.”

He let go and leaned back, just far enough to take Aziraphale’s hand in his and begin on the buttons at the cuff, and Aziraphale shivered again, this time at the loss of contact and the way the room suddenly felt cool. Crowley smiled at him, small and almost shy, and Aziraphale’s chest tightened.

“I mean,” Crowley said softly, kissing the palm of his hand, then his wrist, “something like this’s gonna take me ages and ages to get you out of, isn’t it?”

_Yes--make it last, show me how patient you can be, let me see how much you want me._

Crowley’s lips parted and his tongue darted out, brushing over Aziraphale’s skin before he moved his mouth up another fraction of an inch, and Aziraphale gasped.

“Take as long as you like--” Aziraphale licked his lips, and Crowley undid another button. “--love.”

Crowley huffed a laugh and shot him a wry look, and Aziraphale smiled back. Crowley slipped the cuff’s last button from its mooring, and his fingertips traced the submerged line of Aziraphale’s pulse.

“Beautiful.” Crowley pressed a kiss to his wrist. He raised Aziraphale’s other hand to his face, and kissed his palm before starting on the buttons of that cuff. “Bastard.”

Aziraphale’s blood pooled low in his belly, and he gave up on keeping his corporation from responding wholeheartedly to Crowley’s ministrations. Crowley glanced down between them, and he bit his lip and tried to suppress a smile as he returned his attention to the buttons. The last one gave under his nimble fingers and that feather-light touch.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, against the newly-freed skin of Aziraphale’s wrist, and Aziraphale’s skin sang with anticipation, and he waited to see what Crowley would bare next.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Woven from Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410239) by [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic)


End file.
